Poly Nirvana

“They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.”
~F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Other Side of Paradise

This Fitzgerald quote screamed at me the moment I found it more than a year ago, when I was well into my relationship with Special Man Friend. He and I connected fairly quickly on a level that took us both by surprise, and to be honest, scared the shit out of me.

I value intimacy. I thrive on trust. Intimacy, to me, is that familiar place that is safe. Intimacy allows me to be vulnerable to another human being. It permits me to exist without fear, without pretense. But it is far from easily attained. I am generally slow to trust people. My guy knows more about me than anyone else does, but even before we reached that level of factual knowledge, the intimacy was there. It’s not something that my logical brain can explain. We just fit. I knew and felt fairly quickly that he was my kindred. He got me, in a way that made me feel protected, understood, and accepted.

At the same time, knowing that he loves me exactly as I am now, I am free to be who I want to be. I am free to decide, through self-reflection, what things I want to change or who I want to be, because I am safe with him, always. If I try something, and fail, he will be there, loving me and tending to my bruises. If I try something and succeed, he will be there, loving me and applauding my success. He is proud of me. This is how he loves me.

Though why he loves me, I may never quite understand.

Some days I feel like I have nothing left of myself to offer anyone. Not myself, not my children, my world. It’s not a melancholy that I feel, it’s a weariness that lays on top of my soul and says, “No more.” No more self analysis, no more self improvement, no more lamentations about everything that is not the way it “should be”. I can’t fix everything; I can’t fix anything.

The issue at hand this week is scheduling. Time management. Claiming a slice of my Sweetheart’s figurative calendar pie. Except I don’t just have to consider him and his schedule, and me and my schedule. There’s Metamour and her needs. And then to complicate that, add in her boyfriend, his wife, and her boyfriend. The suggestion has been made that the six of us sit down together and hash out date night schedules.

Somehow, this feels extraordinarily difficult to me. I know that this extended poly network needs to work cooperatively in order to best meet everyone’s needs. But the idea of having to negotiate, or even simply coordinate with four other people in getting time with my most important relationship, has tipped me over the edge and into an unreasonable and selfish abyss.

I do the work it takes to be a good partner to him, and it is very important to me to have a good working relationship with Metamour. So I will get out my planner, and sit down with these people, these good people, and I will smile and be flexible, and do and say the right things.

(But I don’t have to like it.)

I am not an activist. I do not have an agenda, and I am not here to promote a platform. I do think people should be able to love and be loved in whichever consensual format they choose. And that includes monogamy.

I believe that monogamy is fraught with peril, but all human relationships are. Polyamory is no picnic either, and unfortunately, there are plenty of people out there using the trendy “poly” label to justify poor behavior. Conversely, there are those in the poly community who are sincere and earnest in their belief that “good poly” is attainable and desirable. What rubs me the wrong way about a few very enthusiastic proponents, is an attitude that somehow polyamory is on a higher figurative plane. That polyamory is for the evolved and the enlightened. And worse: that those who choose and desire monogamy are emotionally immature, out of touch with their feelings, and victims of a social construct that seeks to oppress humanity.

I don’t want to be a voice for polyamory. I just want to be a voice for honest and loving human relationships, as I see them in my own world. At this point in my life, I am firmly ensconced in a polyamorous relationship, but I still wonder sometimes if a year or ten years from now, I’ll be just as vested, just as happy, and yes, even just as lost sometimes, in a monogamous relationship.

I need to date.

I am happy in my current relationship. My guy has encouraged to me to diversify a little, as he puts it. He wants me to have more: more connection, more fun, more love. I have been focused on him and on our relationship for some time, and wasn’t interested, though I went through spurts of feeling the pressure of needing to be “more poly”, or something. This was a completely internal dialogue I would have with myself, and he watched me struggle with it, and told me, “Stop. You will do it when you are ready.” I was relieved.

My personality is such that I thrive on intimacy. I am uncomfortable and unsure in new situations or with new people. I am slow to make connections, slow to feel safe and slow to allow myself to be vulnerable to another person. I am resistant to change. And starting to date will bring to the forefront every single one of these things.

Oh, and I absolutely abhor first dates. Just the thought makes me a nauseous.

So I’m formulating a plan of action. Setting a goal. Finding a date. One first date in April, and one first date in May. I’m not looking for true love, I’m not looking for anything except stepping outside of my comfort zone and facing my “first date phobia.”

It’s time.

Some days it just stinks to share.

Sharing is one of the first conflicts we face, as we enter the big bad world of pre-school. Sharing is one of those things that you learn as you grow up that you should do because it’s nice, and we human beings should be nice to each other, and being nice to others is good.

Sharing is not always fun. Sharing means you get less. Less of whatever it is, be it chocolate, time with your toys, or hugs and kisses from your mother when you’re used to being an only child and she brings a new baby home. Sometimes you just want those hugs and kisses all to yourself, damn it.

So we grow up, and hopefully we find a balance between our needs and wants, while also working towards transcending the selfish human part of ourselves that just wants what it wants.

I was having a bad day recently, and Special Man Friend and I had carved out just a little time to connect. I wanted the time. I needed the time. I felt like I was falling apart, and this time was going to be my chance to breathe and regroup. When we got together he was distracted by other things, and I found myself tearful and upset. I wanted him all to myself, damn it. There was a lump in my throat that made it hard to swallow, and I found myself not wanting to look at him, lest I completely break down. I didn’t want to share. I didn’t want to think about anyone except myself. I didn’t want to sacrifice anything for anyone else, or for the greater good. I was internally screaming and kicking my feet in an all-out tantrum that would have made any three year old worth her salt, very, very proud.

I said the words, “Do you need to go?” but was thinking “Don’t you dare. It’s not fair.”

Sigh. There’s no fair. There just isn’t. Some times it’s just one priority over another. Sometimes it’s about choosing. Sometimes you don’t get what you think you need, or want. Sometimes the hugs and kisses need to be elsewhere.

I felt terrible. I felt resentful. I felt sorry for myself. Then on top of that, I hated myself for being selfish.

In the end, he did not leave, and I never verbalized to him how horrible I felt about the possibility that he might choose to be elsewhere with his hugs and kisses when I wanted him with me. I know he tries to be there for everyone he loves, but on that night, for those few hours, I wanted him all to myself. I didn’t want to share. I’m still trying to resolve that inside my head.

I had this thought, as I was considering Easter Bunny Day, and how I wanted (or didn’t want) to celebrate it. I asked my guy if he had plans with his family on Sunday… I just can’t remember the specifics of Easter last year. At that point our relationship was just six months old, and since this is not a significant holiday for me, I really have no point of reference for his traditions (or lack of). As the words were put out into cyberspace, as it was a text conversation, a funny thing happened.

“Sunday is Easter,” I said. “I wasn’t sure if you had plans with your family.”

And there it was. An immediate realization.

He is my family.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, he’s my boyfriend, my special man-friend, my lover, my beloved, my guy, my best friend, my important person, and my favorite everything. And somehow, though I view a select few in my extended poly network as “family-esque”, including Metamour, who is married to this man who may be my first great love, I hadn’t ever fully submerged myself in the concept that he IS my family, and he isn’t going anywhere. Just as I don’t live in constant fear that my children will suddenly no longer be my children, I’ve finally surrendered to the basic tenet of polyamory, which at the end of the day, simply comes down to love. Absolute, unwavering, unconditional love. The kind you have for family. The kind that doesn’t go away simply because you are not in close proximity every day. The kind of love that you do not question, but simply know, without having to think about it.

This man is family. My family.

I’m conflicted between writing here in cloaked generalities, and journaling my specific day-to-day experiences as a secondary in a polyamorous relationship. Though I am anonymous to most readers, those who know me in real life have access to this blog: Special Man Friend, Metamour, and the many mutual friends who know us personally. What that means to me, is that opinions formed of my lover and his wife, and myself for that matter, could affect our real-life interactions, not only with our friends and loved ones, but also with each other. I love my people, but we are hardly free of stress and conflict. I love my people, but we are not without our issues. I love my people, but things are downright hard sometimes.

I am passionate about my relationships. I am proud of the fact that Metamour and I continue to work through our insecurities with and about each other. I am proud that neither one of us has given up, or run away. I am proud of my Lover, who is committed to us both, and who never makes me feel like “just the girlfriend”. I know I am loved, I know I am important. I also know how much he loves his wife, and I see how hard he tried to meet both of our needs.

So even as I hesitate to bare all, I yearn to be honest and true. I wonder how to reconcile the two.

It’s important to me that the words I put out into the universe are thoughtful and useful, to someone, somewhere. I have no illusions that these words will appeal to everyone. But I am passionate about one thing: how we humans relate to each other. I want my energy to be positive, and nurturing. Granted, positivity does not come easy to me. Many people downright annoy me, and I have been told by those close to me that I am incapable of hiding my true feelings, that my face tells all. Still, I push on, seeking out the understanding of myself and the way I think, in order to put into perspective my relationships with others, good and not so good. This space is mine, my very own safe place to explore and develop my own ideas about my people, and all people.

It’s the proverbial rock and a hard place, for the modern woman. Be pretty, be smart, and be capable. Handle your business, and look good while doing it. Own your sexuality. And yet, when a woman does all these things, she is viewed suspiciously by some, feared by others, and hated by a few.

One of the first things we learn as young women, is not to “think too much of ourselves”. We deflect compliments, lest we be considered conceited. Stuck up. A bitch. As if somehow, feeling pretty, or knowing we are smart, and capable makes us “less than.”

How many of us, when told, “You look beautiful”, respond with a dismissive, “Oh, I do not.” Or “No, my hair is a mess.”

Why have we, as women, done this to each other? We’ve conditioned ourselves to aspire to be less than fabulous. And then, ironically, we struggle with being less than perfect, never feeling good enough. The tragedy is, that WE are doing this to ourselves.

Here’s a new thought for a new year:

Be fabulous. Love women who are fabulous; enjoy and encourage and nurture their goddess-hood as you embrace your own. There is infinite room, for all kinds of fantastic women, so be your own beautiful. Do not ever be afraid of the knowledge that you are wonderful, and don’t dim your exquisitely unique light out of fear.

There’s no shame in being fabulous. Love who you are. Be who you want to be. Wear crimson on your lips, flowers in your hair, or rock a three piece suit. Be kind and loving. Find your positive goddess energy and go forth into this new year, taking pleasure in the women around you, and always, always allowing them be as fantastic as you are.